Potboiler

“It’s about the Zlabias, right? Tell me that much.”

“Bill never asked,” Savory said. “It’s better if you don’t, either.”

“I’m not Bill.”

“You’re having qualms,” Savory said. “That’s to be expected. You have to remind yourself that your government has your best interests in mind.”

“But I don’t believe that.”

“You goddamned boomers always have to drag everything before a fucking ethics committee. Do you think we beat the Nazis sitting around worrying about hurting people’s feelings? Go home, Artie. Buy yourself a watch.”

He didn’t buy a watch. Instead, he spent several afternoons at the university library, enlisting the help of a friendly student worker (who became even friendlier after Pfefferkorn handed him a hundred-dollar bill) to make photocopies of the front pages of all major American newspapers for the two weeks following the publication of every Dick Stapp novel. It came to more than a thousand pages in total, and he stayed up all night, jotting down the headlines in a notebook he had divided by subject. The pattern that emerged confirmed his hunch: the novels of William de Vallée anticipated every twist of Zlabian political fate from the late 1970s on. On the half-dozen occasions Pfefferkorn could not find a coup or riot linked in time to the publication of a Dick Stapp novel, he assumed there was cloak-and-dagger going on, the kind of stuff that would never be known outside select circles. He shut the notebook, his heart racing. He was blithely toying with the fate of people whose countries he couldn’t find on a map.

He looked at the clock. It was eight-thirty a.m. He ran downstairs to find a cab.

As he rode along, he prepared his speech. I want out, he would say. Or: I’ve had it with this rotten business. Savory would try to dissuade him, of course, and then would come the threats. He would have to stand tall. Do your worst, he would say. I am not your tool. Mentally, he revised: I am not your plaything.

He got in the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor. Listen here, he would begin. I am not your plaything. No: you listen here. That was better. It made clear who was in charge. He tried again, once with Savory’s name and once without. Using Savory’s name pinned Savory to the wall, giving him no way to pass the buck. On the other hand, it gave Savory an identity, and Pfefferkorn was aiming to reduce the man, to make him as small and squashable as possible. You listen here. It had a staccato rhythm, like a handgun. You listen here, Savory, sounded more like a slice from a sword. He still hadn’t made up his mind when a chime sounded and the elevator opened. He stepped briskly forth to knock. There was no answer. He knocked again, assertively. Still there was no answer. He tried the knob. It turned. “You listen here,” he said, stepping into the doorway. He went no further. The room had been stripped bare.

48.

Pfefferkorn called his agent.

“We need to hold the book.”

His agent laughed.

“I’m serious,” Pfefferkorn said. “It can’t go out the way it is. There are too many mistakes.”

“What are you talking about? It’s perfect. Everybody says so.”

“I—”

“You said so yourself.”

“I need to make changes.”

“Look,” the agent said, “I understand you’ve got butterflies, but—”

“It’s not butterflies,” Pfefferkorn shouted.

“Whoa there.”

“Listen to me. Listen. Listen: I need you to call them up and tell them we’re going to hold it another month so I can make revisions.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“You can. You have to.”

“Are you hearing yourself? You sound nuts.”

“Fine,” Pfefferkorn said. “I’ll call them myself.”

“Wait wait wait. Don’t do that.”

“I will unless you do.”

“What is going on here?”

“Call me back after you’ve spoken to them,” Pfefferkorn said and hung up.

Forty-five minutes later the phone rang.

“Did you talk to them?” Pfefferkorn asked.

“I talked to them.”

“And?”

“They said no.”

Pfefferkorn began to hyperventilate.

“You have a first printing of four hundred thousand,” the agent said. “They’re already shipped. What do you expect them to do, pull them all? Look, I understand how you feel—”

“No,” Pfefferkorn said. “You don’t.”

“I do. I’ve seen this before.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“I have. I’ve seen it dozens of times. This is not unusual. You’re having a normal response to a stressful situation. You’ve got people counting on you, the stakes are high. I get it, okay? I know. It’s a lot to shoulder. That doesn’t change what you’ve done. You’ve written a fantastic book. You’ve done your job. Let them do theirs.”